No Words Needed
by AzaleaBlue
Summary: Moments after the Battle of Hogwarts, Ron realises he and Hermione don't need the words anymore.


He often wondered if the three words would be enough, whether they'd be able to encompass everything he felt for her.

People said it to each other all the time, and very few of them lived through what he and Hermione had, shared the insane journey of being Harry Potter's best friend, tried every trick in the book to keep the bloke away from the clutches of the evilest wizard ever. Even Harry didn't know how it was for them.

He wondered if finding her was predestined. He couldn't fathom what it would be like to live his life without her; she knew him more than he knew himself. And yet, they struggled to express something that had been a part of them from the very beginning. 'Ron', he thought, was a part of 'Hermione' quite literally.

How would three simple words make up for everything they had between them? How would it make up for his six years worth of longing, the realisation that his world was nothing without her? He wouldn't last a day without her. The last time when he went through five weeks without her was no less than purgatory.

Months ago, when the war coming to an end was nothing more than an impossible dream, they had come down to a silent agreement- neither would say the words aloud, not until Harry defeated Voldemort, not until there was a hope for a future. And although it wasn't worded out explicitly, it was a silent promise made in a tattered old tent, that each would do their best to stay alive- for the other. It was the only ray of hope that kept them going, the dream of having a future together.

Back in the day, he had craved to hear her say it aloud.

But after their escape from the Manor, after he had pulled her out from under all the glass and crystals and feared the worst, all he had wanted was for her to say a word-_just any word_. And the first one she had uttered was his name.

He had broken down at the foot of her bed, crying till he lost his voice.

And it was then he knew, they didn't need to say it aloud anymore. They both had mastered the art of voicing it without words, learned to hear it in the silence between them.

Today, the war was won.

Now there was nothing stopping him from professing- he could scream from the rooftops if he wanted and she would no longer press her soft hand on his lips to stop him.

And yet…

The bright sunlight streamed in through the tall windows cast patterns on the floor of the quiet Gryffindor common room. Some of the warriors and survivors had gone to bed, and some remained seated on the assortment of couches and chairs, but no one spoke. Neither did Ron nor Hermione who sat with her back resting against his chest on the couch in front of the fireplace. He didn't know if she had dozed off either; it had been hours since they sat this way. Her hands were still encased in his with his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her flush against himself.

Ron weakly registered that the future they had been fighting for had arrived. It was a new day. And yet, the grief and exhaustion seemed to have overwhelmed his senses. He pulled her closer, fighting off the image of the Great Hall, the bodies, the evidence of the war they had fought and ...won.

Suddenly he was gripped by an insane urge to hear her voice, to hear her speak.

As if on cue, she turned a smidge, her eyelids heavy, face too pale. "He did it," she choked out, smiling tiredly, weakly.

"Yeah," he replied. His voice was hoarse, the aftereffect of screaming, crying.

She met his eyes, unspoken words hanging between them- unspoken yet heard, unspoken yet understood clearly. Perhaps their hearts had synchronized their beats, he reckoned, tuned to each other perfectly.

Hermione snuggled in deeper into his chest.

"I..." she began suddenly and paused, and as he looked at her face, a single tear escaped and ran down the grime-covered cheek, before she pressed her face under his chin, fisted his jumper tightly.

"Me too," he replied hoarsely, gripping her tighter.


End file.
